


when you last left me my blood was in a jar

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cursed Captain Hook | Killian Jones, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: and you kept it on your mantlepieceShe must be doing something wrong that her son thinks the best way to go about provinghisfairytale identity is to steal a sword. She must be doing something wrong to indulge this.Given everything that Storybrooke and this storybook has thrown her way, it must be wrong that Killian being Captain Hook isn’t the worst option.





	when you last left me my blood was in a jar

**Author's Note:**

> love it when i’m just scrolling my dash, minding my own business, and a silly prompt shows up and my brain fires in the completely wrong direction where “MY KID SHOPLIFTED FROM YOUR STORE AND I MARCHED HER BACK HERE TO APOLOGIZE TO YOU AU” becomes nearly 6k of a s1 cursed hook au. anyways, glad that i apparently still know how to put words on a page in something resembling a story, hope you enjoy!

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the sword?”

“It’s not a sword,” Henry grumbles. There’s no masking the disappointment of a ten year old child, and Henry’s mastered the pout. Emma’s not falling for it today. There’s letting him join her for a cup of hot cocoa at the diner when he’s already late for getting...to Regina. But letting him pocket a -

“What is it then?” Emma asks.

Henry simply says, “A replica of Excalibur.”

“The Knights of the Round Table that hard up for money? Franchising a magic sword?”

Henry shakes his head, in that way he does where he sees her sarcasm as something to power through rather than acknowledge. He’s remarkably good at that, too, because when he replies, “No. Emma, you were supposed to read the book,” she actually feels guilty.

“Yeah...yeah, I did. Refresh me though?”

Henry sees her for a liar, liar pants on fire, but he’s mature enough not to say it and Emma’s immature enough to near smile when she looks up at the telephone wire above them.

“You know Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, right?” Emma nods. She saw the movie. “Everyone knows that...but after he pulled out Excalibur, he realized that he couldn’t use it.” He hushes her next question with a look, so Emma decides to simply listen. “It wasn’t that it was too heavy or that he was a bad swordsman. It just didn’t _work_ for him. Sure, it made everyone believe that Camelot would finally become great again, but it wasn’t magic. It didn’t feel like anything but a normal sword in his hands. He know for certain that this sword had superpowers, and he couldn’t understand why it felt so powerless. He was obsessed with trying to find a way to unlock its power. So, he barely paid attention to being a king and ruling a kingdom, and Guinevere...she was lonely.”

Emma bites at her lip. Infidelity isn’t exactly PG, and she wonders what else she didn’t read in this book. What else her kid is way too knowledgeable of. It isn’t like she wants to be the one to talk to him about the birds and the bees – in all likelihood, that will never be an option and she doesn’t even know if she wants it to be one, not really sure of anything anymore. Still, she doesn’t think its best that he learn about sex through a book of fairytales. If Harlequin writers can’t get it right when erotica is their freaking job, she shudders at how this book might tell it.

Henry elbows her, and once he has her attention, he continues, “And Lancelot, he loved his friends. Arthur was his best friend, and Guinevere was his favourite person in the entire world. He wanted to help them, and when Guinevere used this magic gauntlet to find Arthur’s heart’s desire, she and Lancelot set out to find it and bring it back to him.”

“Oh.”

She really wasn’t expecting that, but fairytales, right. Lonely people trying to reconnect with their significant others rather than find someone else is the dream.

“They thought it’d be fast, but the journey took them across the whole of Camelot. They spent weeks travelling from town to town. They got to know all these people. They saw the way they lived. Some people struggled and others did pretty well, and they were like ‘When we get home, we’re totally going to do all these things to make it better.’ It took them forever really, and suddenly it was Guinevere’s birthday. Arthur promised her that when he became king, the whole of Camelot would be covered in Middlemist flowers to celebrate it. When she didn’t see any, she told Lancelot it was a silly promise that children make, but he said, that it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be kept, and he took her through the woods until they came upon a field full of them. It was beautiful, and that’s when Guinevere realized why Excalibur wasn’t working for Arthur. Excalibur couldn’t make Camelot a true kingdom. It isn’t a magic sword that just fixes everything. It’s magical because it’s a promise to work together to make things better. Arthur didn’t keep that promise because he was too obsessed with finding its magic.”

Quickly, Henry added, “And of course she and Lancelot kissed, but they said that was it, and both went home to Arthur to tell him this. About Excalibur, not the kiss.”

Emma finally interjects, amused by Henry’s obvious discomfort, “I take it that didn’t work.”

“No, Arthur was so angry that they just left, and he wouldn’t listen to them. He didn’t believe that they’d done this for him. He just thought that they were trying to undermine him. He yelled at Lancelot for being in love with Guinevere and he tried to kill his best friend! And he tried to control Guinevere with magic! He was so crazy. They stopped him, but when everyone found out, they were heartbroken. They thought that Merlin was a liar and that Camelot would always be terrible, but with Lancelot’s help, Guinevere gathered them and told them what she’d learned about Excalibur. She lifted the sword to try and make them see and when she did, its shape changed and it became this sword that she could actually use without breaking her arm. She unlocked its magic, and she saved Camelot.”

Emma nods, “So Guinevere’s the one true king? But then shouldn’t she have been the one supposed to pull the sword from the stone?”

“No!” Henry denies vehemently - _Don’t you get it?_ \- Emma very much doesn’t so she lets him explain, “Merlin said Arthur would pull the sword from the stone and become king, but he never said he would stay king. He never said that he’d be a good king.”

Emma gets it now, and she says so.

“Arthur sucks.”

“He’s the worst,” Henry agrees.

“Worse than the Evil Queen?” Emma asks - and not because there’s that petty part of her that wants to hear Henry disparage Regina, but because there’s that big part of her that, despite everything she’s seen,  wants to believe that Regina isn’t this person and that she didn’t consign her son to this. She wants to believe that Regina was better before, she can be better, and Emma was right to send him away to have a family she could never give him.

She never wanted him to be as broken as her.

Henry frowns deeply, looking down at the replica sword.

“No.”

Her heart breaks, but that’s normal. Disney got it wrong, leaving Arthur and marrying Lancelot was the best decision Guinevere ever made, Excalibur looks like a needle, and with every story he reads from that book, all Henry does is prove that fairytales are bullshit. Here he is, trying to convince her that all these stories are true, but who wants to believe that these characters lives are just as awful as theirs? That their happy endings could be taken away just like that; one moment you’re dreaming of that happily ever after with your one true love and the next -

You’re letting your son go because that kind of love was never meant for you to have.

Henry prods Emma out of her thoughts, elbowing her as he says, “So, I have to give it back?”

And he drives her into other thoughts that are _just_ as comforting. She looks down at him and his barely hidden smile. No thief should ever look so happy about having to return to the scene of the crime. Emma doesn’t want her suspicions confirmed, but she has no choice.

“Give it back to who exactly?”

Emma doesn’t need to be good at seeing through people to see that Henry was looking forward to this reveal.

“Captain Hook.”

Emma groans, and snatching the weapon out of Henry’s hand - truly, the little backstabber dragging her back to the man she’s made it explicitly clear that she’s only too happy to avoid. Forever. Like trapped in Neverland forever.

“Mr. _Jones_ ,” Emma emphasizes as Henry leads the way to his shop, “is not someone you should be stealing from.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to steal from anyone,” Henry points out.

Emma scrunches up in annoyance, and says firmly, “Some people are more forgiving. He doesn’t seem like the type.”

“He likes me,” Henry says, and sneakily, even though her kid is _not_ sneaky, he adds, “He likes you.”

“He does not,” Emma says. “He likes messing with me.”

“I think he just wants to be your friend,” Henry says.

The innocence of youth, to not see the redness in her face as anything other than annoyance. Killian Jones does _not_ want to be her friend. He wants the benefits of friendship. In both those terms. Getting in good with the Sheriff is only common sense with criminal elements, and getting in good with her? He’s made it quite clear that it would benefit the both of them.

She really would like to deny that last point, but it’s been a frustrating few months and running around from one insane predicament to the next does a lot, but not nearly enough.

And really, those little moments that she’s been trying to avoid do way too much. She casts her eyes to her son’s determined pace towards Killian’s shop, the little backstabber -

“Let’s just get his sword back to him.”

Henry turns back to her with a big grin.

“Sure!”

Killian’s shop comes up all too fast, and okay, maybe fast is a good thing. Fast means getting this over with. Still, she sighs watching Henry wrench open the door so hard that it makes the entrance bell chime loud enough that there’s no way Killian wouldn’t hear it.

Following Henry inside, she catches sight of Killian immediately as he steps out from a dark corner of the shop. His eyes find hers, and he lights up, no other way to put it - except maybe that he does that ‘I’m dark and dangerous and I _really_ want to be your friend’ swagger towards her.

She’s glad Henry steps between them, if only because it steals his interested gaze, and Emma doesn’t have to pointedly stare at his neck to keep him from using her line of sight against her. Also because she doesn’t want to have to fight herself to stare at his neck when his collarbones are in view.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he directs at Henry, but his eyes flicker up to Emma at the last bit.

Subtlety isn’t a skill of ten year old boys or thirty year old men. Who’d’ve thought?

“Henry decided to pull the sword from the stone,” she says, lifting the replica in sight. “We both decided that it was a good idea to put it back.”

Killian nods, kneeling to Henry’s height to say, “Swordsmanship is an art that one doesn’t just pick up in day. You don’t start with the blade. That, lad, is an excellent way to lose a hand.”

Emma closes her eyes, tilting her head to the sky in a silent plea to the ceiling to fall in. Not on any of them, but just enough that they can call Leroy in here to make sure that she won’t have to endure this longer than necessary.

“Is that how you lost yours?” Henry asks excitedly.

Killian grins. “You’re a clever lad.” He lifts his gaze to Emma as he says, “You truly take after your mother.”

Henry turns to look at her as well, grinning in that way that makes Emma _believe_ , and says simply, surely, absolutely certainly, “I know.”

“But,” he adds, drawing out the word, “I have to go meet my -” He furrows his brow, scrunching his face in thought before finishing, “Other mom now.” He pouts guiltily. “I’m already in trouble. I shouldn’t be late.”

Running over to Emma, he briefly wraps her in a tight hug and says, “We’ll continue the operation tomorrow. You can tell me all about what you find.”

It takes Emma a beat, enough time for Henry to swing open the door and run out the shop, for her to realize what he’s referring to.

He wants her to prove that Killian is Captain Hook.

Oh boy, she’s going to have to disappoint. She turns to follow him out, but Killian calls out to her, “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

He offers his hand and for a brief, insane moment, Emma thinks that he’s referring to _her_. She has all the words of protest at the tip of her tongue when he nods towards her hand and she realizes she’s still holding the sword.

“Right,” she says, hoping beyond hope that the quaver in her voice is all in her head and not being catalogued in his list of ‘ _Reactions Emma Swan Has Had to Me That Imply She Actually Does Like Me_.’

Swiftly, she places the sword hilt-side up in his hand. Her fingers brush his palm for a fraction of a second, but she looks at him at that exact moment and doesn’t miss the quirk of a smile, the passing of heat in that light touch - the flare of heat in her belly, that traitor.

Ignoring her body being an asshole, she says, “Thanks for, you know,” She shrugs at his bewildered response, “Not pressing charges against my kid.”

“I know how corruption runs rampant in law enforcement. I doubt anything would come of it,” Killian teases.

It well and truly misses the mark. Having spent time working with both the NYPD and BPD, and her brief encounters with other police forces when she’s caught her jumpers across state lines, Emma knows how true that is.

Killian notices her stiffen; he doesn’t miss much. Emma hates it, especially when his expression softens, apologetic in his understanding of her.

“I would never do such a thing. I’m not a cruel man,” he says quietly.

Emma catches how it’s something like a lie, something like he doesn’t believe his own words even though he wants to.

She knows that feeling.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to acknowledge it when he adds, “ _And_ I would never fault him for wanting to indulge in a little piracy.”

Emma shakes her head, a small disbelieving smile taking her lips at his smirk, and can’t resist replying, “It is thievery.”

“Pirates and thieves, one and the same.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we are standing on land, and don’t hit me with any sea of molten lava deep beneath the surface. It’s thievery.”

“I’m not certain why you’re insisting on labelling your son a criminal,” Killian says with a too amused grin.

She steps towards him, and he turns, taking the sword towards the counter, so she follows him because a turned back does not mean he’s won this.

“You’re the one calling him a pirate,” Emma says.

Whispers “fuck,” because she’s whining. Jesus, she’s whining and she’s letting this get too far. Maybe he has won.

“ _Fuck_.”

Sword placed on the counter, Killian turns to face her again and she rocks back on her heels unsteadily, followed him much closer than she meant to.

“Actually, he’s the one calling me one.”

Emma frowns, argument gone as she’s reminded of Henry’s intention in bringing her here: to discover the truth for herself. Killian’s truth.

She looks past him, gaze tracking over his shop - and that, it sticks, ill-fitting in her head. This shop doesn’t feel like his. The thought is stupid, really, but it feels like he’s tried to fit himself into the space of someone else. Someone that he doesn’t particularly like, given the state of the shop.

She noticed that first time she came here, demanding to know why he had Kathryn and David’s windmill in his shop, and he’d shrugged like it wasn’t anything important. He’d just picked it up. It was there, and then he let it go. Something so important was nothing more than a thing passing through his life when it had - when she’d had to swallow down the thought that it had ruined her friend’s life when David had only been a part of it for a minute, or Once Upon a Time, somewhere far removed from the reality that Mary Margaret had gotten herself infatuated with a married man. She’d fallen down a road that Emma knew all too well, and it was _her_ fault. Because she’d convinced her to entertain Henry’s story, pressed to believe only for show and Mary Margaret _believed._

“You _are_ a pawnbroker. Other people’s things are kind of your inventory,” Emma says.

He shrugs.

“These aren’t my trophies.”

_Whose are they_?

Emma stills the question on her tongue, and steps away from him to get a good look of the shop. She follows this counter around to the next, and even though his steps don’t follow hers, she feels him right behind her - his gaze almost as heated as the thought of pressing her body to his. A thought she has had a lot. Is having right now, apparently, because he’s looking at her and eye-fucking is kind of a thing he’s good at.

But –

She forges past that to focus on the shelves of objects as ridiculously mundane as an old record player and a Walkman with a Spice Girls sticker on the front, and as strange as wands in protective glass cases, a pack of tarot cards ink in colours that don’t seem real, and a genie’s lamp pulled straight out of Aladdin.

Then there’s the hand in the jar.

_‘What the fuck?’_ isn’t her first thought because there’s a goddamn hand in the jar, but because it’s _Killian’s_. Why the ever-loving fuck that is her first thought she can’t even fathom a reason for, besides that she’s read too many pages in that storybook.

She stiffens at the press of his hand to her shoulder, as he steps up behind her, beside her, and finally turning slightly to have both her and the hand in his view.

With a lifeless smile, Killian says, “The previous owner had quite the sense of humor. He left that for me as a -” He pauses, stretching out his handless arm so that she gets it when he says, “ _Parting_ gift.”

She sighs. “More hand jokes? Really?”

He can’t help himself from self-deprecating, from pointing it out before anyone else does, of turning his loss into a threat to anyone trying to use it against him because he’ll use it first.

Killian smiles and shrugs, and this smile is the same as before. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it sinks beneath his skin, where she can’t see – probably the same place she keeps hers, in the hollows of her heart.

_She shouldn’t at all._

_Maybe she really should._

Emma reaches for him. Her touch makes Killian pause, right before that moment where he curtains himself, and it’s with a clarity that she sees the haunting in his eyes, a darkness she really shouldn’t let herself touch, but she did, she is, and -

She swallows as he waits, frozen in that expression. Gods, she has no idea what he’s waiting for, like he’s been waiting forever. For her to pull away. For her to pull him with her.

“Light!” she blurts.

Killian’s expression shifts, and she shouldn’t sigh in relief for the bemused look, but it’s easier to handle than everything she just saw.

Searching for a way to not sound completely stupid, she says, “This place could really do with some more light if you want to attract any customers.”

She nods, satisfied as much as she can be. She is right. This place is way too dark. It feels a bit like a lair. Or a prison. Both, maybe.

His eyebrow lifts, his face deepening its confusion, and she sighs because _this_ is something he doesn’t get. He understands enough to catch her at her weakest –

_“You don’t want to abandon him the way you were abandoned.” Meeting the steel in her gaze with one of his own. “So, don’t.”_ –

He knows how to throw her back on her feet.

Killian understands enough to have her running. She really has been avoiding him since them, and doing a spectacular job of it, too, but now she’s stepping into him, close enough that he’s pressed against her as she looks for something to prove her point because this idiot can understand too many things but not how to light a shop, apparently.

She finds it. A fake flower that looks real, and not like something preserved to fit into a portrait to hang on a wall. It looks like it’s just been picked. Beautiful white petals curling towards its bright green stem.

Flowers are pretty, but beyond that, they’re just flowers. It’s not something she gets hyped for, but there’s a rush in her voice that can’t be explained by anything she’s felt before as she says, finger pointing at it through the glass, “That would _totally_ sell.”

He settles in behind her, looking over her shoulder at the flower beneath her finger. Her breaths go unsteady as he murmurs, breath warm and making her shiver, “Are you looking to buy?”

She shakes her head swiftly, pushing out of their embrace.

Somehow it doesn’t feel like that motion has broken them apart at all.

“No. I’m not.”

Emma turns to face him, about to repeat herself when he offers a smile that’s been nothing like the others he’s given her today. No pure flirtation, no teasing or amusement, no masking, just a smile of genuine happiness.

Genuinely _happy_.

“Then it shall be a gift.”

She lifts her hands, self-defense second nature, and she hates that she has to defend herself against bringing out a smile - because smiles like that can only lead to trouble. The fluttering in her stomach has nothing to do with frustration, and she hates that she can even acknowledge that.

“No, nope,” she says.

“For the business advice,” he offers, his smile a little more recognizable, but no less difficult to handle. Killian understands her (and not normal business practices, of course, makes sense.) She won’t take anything that first smile offers, but this she can take.

Logical, really.

But not really at all because an installation of lights isn’t exactly a stroke of genius, and it’s not like he’s cared to do this before and there’s no particular reason why he should care now.

(No reason she should be the one to make him care.)

Killian moves behind the counter, pulls out a key from a pocket that she didn’t even know he had. His clothes are ridiculous. Either it’s the leather jacket with the inner pockets deep enough to hold a large (full and gladly shared) flask, or these skinny jeans that don’t look like they could hold anything at all without her seeing the outline of them in his pockets, and yet she missed that.

Granted, she hasn’t let her eyes drift beneath his torso up until this point, and granted that she’s of enough sense of self to let them linger.

“Here you go, love,” he says. Even as he does, he doesn’t expect her to walk over, coming out behind the counter to offer the flower to her himself.

Emma opens her palm for it, and his touch is gentle as he presses it into her grasp. Red’s flooding her cheeks, but more so, her chest feels like she’s doused herself in Vicks, and without the smell to distract, all she feels is the path of heat beneath her skin, leading to places she doesn’t want warmed.

She doesn’t want to feel anything at all, but she shifts the flower into the other hand so she can drag her fingers over it, and gasps in surprise.

“It’s real,” she says.

“Of course it is,” he replies, smile amused.

“What? _How_?”

“Magic,” he offers.

She doesn’t like the way he says it. Like it’s true. Like it’s a truth he hates, and yet, Killian looks at her like he doesn’t hate it that much at all.

Emma should’ve left when Henry did, for all this encounter has done to her head. Messed with it. He likes messing with her. He _likes_ her.

Flight kicks in, and she says, “Thanks. I have to -”

“Go,” he finishes.

She nods and turns away, her gaze catching on the shelves of objects and there they settle again on that jarred hand. The flower is so soft beneath her fingers. Cold, though. Too cold.

Emma bites her lip, pausing yet again.

“Some more advice?”

Killian lifts a brow in amusement. “Should I paint the walls? Hang some new shelves?”

“The hand should go, too.”

He stiffens again, clearly searching her face from some sort of understanding. She doesn’t think she’s confused him this much since their first meeting, when, after stumbling into her (or she’d stumbled into him, realizing all she’d had in her car by way of clothes were two tank tops and a pair of jeans and stomped away in frustration) he’d murmured, “Are you real, lass?”

She’d jumped at the question, hackles raising. “Of course I’m real. Are you drunk?” was her swift response to the light smell of alcohol cloaking him, and he’d confirmed her assessment with a deep nod, “Aye, I am. And you are,” his gaze roving over her in wonder, “Quite real.”

It’s weird because she feels like Killian should understand the way her hand inches up to her neck, fingers brushing the chain. It’s been there for so long, but she hasn’t given it conscious thought in so long. Yet, it’s been on her mind too much lately. That necklace Neal gave her feels as painful as the day she put it on, and it isn’t because she sees Henry and thinks of him, although she does because he looks like him and has that same mischief that Emma loved, and still loves.

But it hurts, how she’s holding onto this reminder of everything that told her she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t have this, and she should never want to - when she’s so scared of how things will turn out with Henry now that she’s in his life, and she can acknowledge that he’s in her heart, her love for him the softest thing that’s ever found its home there.

It hurts because she’s more scared of holding onto this reminder of every reason why she can’t when she suspects that she’s actually starting to believe that she can.

But Killian _can’t_ know that, all the intimate details of her rocky past and all the thoughts floating in her head and the feelings in her heart, when she’s been making sure that he can’t.

It isn’t like Emma knows him either - no matter that there are pages in Henry’s book detailing how Captain Hook lost his hand and his love, and how his revenge led him to Neverland and not that Neverland created it. She doesn’t know Killian Jones beyond a story her son believes, and these moments they’ve had, sharing a flask at the docks, a quipped remark here and there, and flirting every time they meet, whether he’s walking out the doors of the Mayor’s office, or while he’s in heated conversation with Dr. Whale, or after he’s finished antagonizing David on Main Street. Plus, he bears a fondness for the Sheriff’s Office that she bears with zero grace.

She doesn’t know him; he doesn’t know her, but she understands.

“You should get rid of it,” she says, and offers a raised eyebrow of her own and a scoffed question, “What does Captain Hook need with another hand anyway?”

“Yes...Aye.”

He quiets, and his gaze follows the trail her hand leaves when she pulls it away from the necklace weighing at her neck and cups her hands over the flower. Her hands are warm, but it doesn’t feel like it’s wilting in the slightest. It’s cold against her fingers, just short of the bite of winter, the air after a fresh fall of snow.

Killian follows the lift of her ducked head, the press of her lips. Emma finds them dry, and licks out at them, and he follows that motion, too. He follows her movements with a focus she doesn’t know how to match.

But she’s watching him, too, so maybe that’s the same given the circumstances, when she should’ve walked out the door the moment she came in.

She should have…

Killian’s confusion slowly gives way to a wonder unlike the one before.

“Why does Hook need a hand indeed?”

Any other time, she’d expect him to smirk, offer himself to her just so she could deny him. The familiar game. But right now, she isn’t playing at that. She isn’t playing at all. Maybe there’s something to the wonder – the _revelation_ in his eyes because she’s never felt barer than she does right now.

Someone knocks at the door of his shop, and it startles. Confusing. Why would anyone need to knock?

“Mr. Jones, I…”

She whips around to face the newcomer, a portly man she’s seen before when he’s definitely been up to no good by the way he stutters, “Sheriff Swan! You’re…”

Emma saves him his breath because it sounds like he needs it.

“Leaving.”

She shifts back to Killian, but whatever she saw moments before is completely gone. He looks more shadowed now than he did when he’d stepped out of the dark corner of his shop.

“Thanks again and just remember –” _Remember what? This? Everything this conversation has been? What_ has _it been?_

“Add more lights?”

She doesn’t mean the question, except that she has too many.

“Shall do, Sheriff,” he replies.

There’s nothing more to say to that so she steps past the man and out into the sunny day. The door shuts behind her, and she frowns at it.

But there’s nothing more to do except go about what she’s been doing. Train her focus back to - she groans as she pulls her phone out her pocket, a struggled motion to keep the flower uncrushed while checking the screen.

She’s late to being on call.

-

The flower first goes on top of her desk, but it doesn’t feel safe - she’s worrying about the safety of a flower, _what the fuck_. It goes into her desk, but that feels wrong, and she starts to rationalize these irrationalities. It’ll get crushed in her pocket. She can’t just put it anywhere where it can get crushed, lost, _stolen_. That last one occurs to her after she looks at old case files and catches a report of a break in at the flower shop.

The best option becomes her dashboard, in the empty box of her new phone charger, bought at a price only reasonable in a small town with no other competition, and no other options. Amazon apparently does not deliver to Storybrooke, Maine.

_It’s the curse_ , Henry would say.

It _is_ a curse, definitely.

A few days pass with the flower in her car, and (irrationally) she checks every time she gets in, expecting disaster. It’s always as perfectly preserved as before. Just as alive.

It’s either goddamn magic or just the coolest trick anyone’s ever pulled off.

She’s leaning towards (the former, really, but she hates that, it’s completely insane so she tells herself it’s) the latter.

Emma doesn’t mention it. Not that it’s something worth mentioning, or something she should mention, but just...yeah is all she can say. She doesn’t understand it really at all. It’s just a feeling that keeps it a secret, protected within her twice-stolen car.

Inevitably, today Henry pops open the dash to access a pen and yells, “Where did you get that?”

Emma rubs at her ears, his yell more akin to a pitch that she won’t mention to him, to protect his pride.

“Calm down, kid. It’s just -” She looks at the flower as he lifts it delicately from the box, marveling at it. Swallowing around that feeling she can’t voice, she says, “Killian gave it to me because I gave him some advice.”

“Whoa,” Henry says, wide eyes on her. “He _gave_ you that?”

His expression tightens, fierce thought in his eyes. His brain is working to the max. Not always a good sign. _Never_ a sign her day is going to remain nice and quiet.

“Yeah. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Emma, didn’t you _read_ the whole book?” Henry accuses.

Embarrassed and guilty as charged (again), Emma says, “I read the important stories!”

“All of them are important,” Henry insists. Holding the flower up to her, he says, “Especially this one. The Dark One Rumplestiltskin tricked a woman into trading it to him to save her son. It’s protects you from all dark magic _and_ it brings good luck. Of course, he wanted it to protect him from the Bog Witch’s curse - though it didn’t work for him because he _is_ dark magic so he just kept it so no one could use it against him but…” Henry’s voice softens as he searches for an answer to his offered question. “Why would Captain Hook have that?”

_A previous owner_ sounds like a good reason – if she’s to believe that…the feeling of pawnshop not belonging to him wasn’t an incorrect one.

Henry stares at the flower. Each word slow and measured, he says, “I think there’s some stories missing from the book.”

His gaze turns to her, so serious, an expression far too old for him to have. It’s the look of everything changing and having to face something you never thought possible.

Henry has been preaching the impossible since she met him. Nothing should be too impossible for him.

At a whisper, he says, “I think Captain Hook is the Dark One.”

Emma scoffs.

“Really?” she says.

She looks at the flower in his hand, and unthinkingly opens her palm for him to hand it to her.

“Seriously?” she reiterates.

She runs her fingers over the flower, over the ice cold petals in her hand.

_‘Seriously?’_ is what she asks, but it’s the answer as well. _Seriously_.

Emma really fucked up.

Emma really picked a shit time to start to believe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> anyways s1 dark one hook should be written by everyone ok? please and thanks


End file.
